


North Isn't True (Til It's Leading Me to You)

by atthebarricade



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Is there a such thing as fluff without plot because this is that, M/M, Steve Rogers protection squad, Steve deserves to be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:27:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4318917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atthebarricade/pseuds/atthebarricade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When I dumped all of SHIELD’s files on the internet, there was a video from when they first found you frozen and woke you up. It’s one of the most popular files I leaked.”<br/>“I know,” Steve told her. “I watched it.”<br/>“It’s so popular because you can see the first time you take a breath in nearly seventy years,” she continued. “You can see the doctor’s excitement when your heartbeat starts to register on the monitor. A national icon, resurrected.”<br/>Steve stared at her, wondering what the point of this conversation was. She looked right back at him, expression serious but not cold.<br/>“Anyone who wanted to could watch that video and see Captain America being resuscitated. This is different. This is you coming to life.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	North Isn't True (Til It's Leading Me to You)

Steve remembered the first time he got to _really_ see Bucky after the serum, not including the brief once-over when he gave him before getting him off that damn table. That had been a quick scan for injuries, and every second afterwards had been a fight for his life. When the beam had collapsed and Bucky screamed, “Not without you!”, Steve could hear him so damn clearly and knew in that moment that he couldn’t allow himself to die because he had not experienced nearly enough of Bucky Barnes yet. He could see every color in his eyes and strands of hair; he could hear Bucky’s gravelly tones in both ears. More than anything he wanted to touch him just one last time, wanted his newly strong hands to comb through his sweaty hair or use his new height to tuck Bucky under his chin.

So he had leapt, narrowly avoiding a pillar of smoke and flame and he had made it. Bucky was screaming at him, demanding to know just what the “ever-loving hell is wrong with you, Rogers, you could have _died_ —” but Steve just got to his feet and cupped Bucky’s face in his hands and _looked_.

It had seemed like a miracle, then. He could picture Bucky in his mind with perfect detail if he ever was lucky enough to filch some paper and a couple of pencils to draw him with.

Later, when he couldn’t sleep through the night without dreaming about Bucky's fall, Steve’s capacity for detail made the memories all the more painful.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky whispered, and Steve sat up with a gasp.

“Bucky?” he said, panicked.

“Steve,” Bucky repeated, his voice soft. “I’m right here. You were yelling.”

Steve let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, Buck. I’m alright. You can go back to bed.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, I couldn’t sleep either. It’s—it’s fine. I just want you to be okay.”

Steve ignored the way that it felt like someone had just punched him in the gut. “I’m okay,” he assured him. “I’m okay. Thank you.” He hoped Bucky didn’t ask him what for, because truthfully he wasn’t sure what he would say. Instead, Bucky just nodded and scooted closer to him on the bed.

Without another word, Steve threw the covers back and raised his eyebrows slightly. Bucky took it for the invitation it was and slid under the covers before hesitating, clearly unsure what his boundaries were. Steve took the initiative and closed the slight gap between them and wrapped an arm around him, allowing his eyes to flutter shut and praying to whoever was left to hear him that he never lose this again.

 

Steve is delighted when after just a few short months of recovery, Bucky declares himself ready to go see this brave new world for real. Steve suggested a run, and when Bucky proves that he can keep up with ease Steve feels not only pride but a growing sense of competition. It’s been awhile since he’s been evenly matched.

Sam refuses to run with either Steve or Bucky, opting instead to go solo or have Natasha tag along.

“Seriously, Wilson?” Bucky drawled one day after hearing this. “You think Natasha is any easier to keep up with?”

“Not at all,” Sam replied easily. “She’s just not such an asshole about it.”

Steve burst into laughter, enjoying Bucky’s confused look and Sam’s eyeroll. When Steve had to squeeze past Sam to open a cupboard, he whispered in a mocking tone, _“On your left_.”

Sam practically jumped a foot in the air and when he feinted toward Steve as if to tackle him, Bucky just laughed and stayed firmly where he’s seated.

It’s progress, and with each passing day Steve felt his long-unfrozen heart get just a little bit lighter.

 

A few months passed and Bucky gained enough confidence to start repeating some of his and Steve’s old inside jokes. The first time it happens, Steve is chasing a spider around the house with a rolled up newspaper and a determined expression. Bucky allowed it go on for ten minutes before giving Steve a deeply judgemental if not fond look before following the spider with his eyes for a moment before easily squashing it under his foot.

Steve pouted and Bucky slung an arm around his shoulder.

“I know, pal,” he said with false sympathy. “You had ‘em on the ropes.”

Steve wanted to cry but instead he laughed, laughing so hard that he has to sink down on the couch and takes several minutes to collect himself. If he could get out of breath so easily, he’s sure he would be.

Bucky smiled like he had won a prize, and after that he cracked a lot more jokes and Steve found himself laughing more than he had in seventy years.

“I missed you,” he told him seriously one afternoon. “God, I missed you so much.”

Bucky looked back at him with sad eyes and cupped Steve’s cheek. It was something both their ma’s used to do. “I don’t know how I ever forgot you,” he whispered brokenly, looking tormented.

“Buck—” Steve began, but he was cut off by Bucky shaking his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said forcefully, as if trying to convince himself as well as Steve. The pained look in his eyes is replaced by something hard and determined and so thoroughly _Bucky_ that it takes Steve’s breath away. “I’m not ever going to let anyone take that away from me ever again. No one is ever going to take _you_ away from me again.”

And Steve lets himself believe.

 

One day the Avengers are all seated on one of Tony Stark’s enormous leather couches. Tony had invited them all over, complaining that _it is called Avenger’s Tower, after all, he did not change the name of it just for fun, you’re all allowed to actually come over—_

So Steve had gone with Sam and Bucky in tow. They’d all met Sam already--several times in fact--and though Sam refused to confirm Steve had a sneaking suspicion that Stark had extended an invitation for Sam to join the Avengers. The team had met Bucky, too; of course Natasha had, and Sam, but it’d taken a while before Bucky had agreed to meet the rest of them. Clint had taken to him immediately. Thor rarely disliked anyone and Bruce had just shook Bucky’s hand with a knowing look in his eye.

Bucky had been introduced firstly to Tony, though, and luckily they had happened to be alone. Steve had a question for him and figured it was a good time for Bucky to start being friendly with Steve’s teammates. The moment they walked into the lab, though, Steve sensed something was wrong; Bucky took one look at Tony, who had gotten to his feet and already begun on the freezer burn jokes, and dropped to his knees.

“Bucky?” Steve panicked, getting down next to him and grabbing his rests. “Buck, what’s the matter? Are you having a—”

But Bucky’s gaze remained trained on Tony, all color draining from his face.

“ _Howard?_ ”

In the end Tony had been able to express to Bucky that he knew he’d had no control over his actions and that he didn’t hold Bucky accountable. Still, it had taken weeks to get Bucky to agree to even step foot in the tower again.

(And that night, he had crept into Steve’s room and slid in next to him, no longer worrying about permission. Steve had allowed Bucky to crawl up next to him and bury his face in Steve’s neck while Steve told him stories about the war, and about Howard, and about fondue. The next time they’d gotten together, Steve had found it within himself to share that particular tale with all his teammates. Tony had nearly pissed himself and, surrounded by his laughing teammates and smiling best friend, Steve wondered if he could fit into this century after all.)

Now they sat on Tony’s couch and Steve tried to ignore the way Stark’s gaze remained trained on him nearly the whole night. Steve picked out a movie (“shit, Rogers, for a ninety-year-old you sure have good taste…” “Fuck off, Barton, you have beer dribbled down your shirt”) and halfway through he turned to crack a joke to Bucky. It earned him a snort and a bitingly sarcastic remark in return. That led to banter that became increasingly louder until he let out a particularly loud laugh that seemed to jolt him back into reality, where he found six sets of eyes staring at the two of them.

“Oh, shit, sorry!” he apologized, noticing that they had paused the movie.

Natasha turned away, but not quick enough to disguise the turned-up corners of her mouth. Somehow Stark’s gaze seemed to become even more intense, and once Bucky started fidgeting next to him Steve knew that he had noticed too.

When the credits began to roll, Tony cleared his throat and demanded Steve join him in the kitchen in order to prove that he knew how to make microwave popcorn and it wasn’t all just a conspiracy.

“The movie’s over, Tony,” Steve protested, but Tony gave him a _look_ and Bucky removed his arm from around Steve’s shoulders, jerking his chin in the direction of the kitchen. Steve sighed and gave in, snagging a bowl that was empty except for a few unpopped kernels before joining Tony in his enormous kitchen.

“What is it, Stark?” he asked, wondering in the back of his mind if Bucky was ready to go home or if he could be convinced to stay out a little later, he had used to love staying out until an ungodly hour—

“Cap,” Tony said, sounding exasperated.

“Oh, shit, sorry Tony,” he apologized. “What did you say?”

“I said, you look good,” repeated Stark. Steve immediately looked down, instantly self-conscious and looking for something about his appearance that was out of sorts or stained.

“Jesus, Rogers, I’m being serious. You look… rested, I guess? Younger?” This was clearly paining Tony to say, so Steve just nodded enthusiastically and flashed a USO tour-worthy smile.

“Thanks, Tony, I’m feeling good.”

“No, I mean it. Barnes is… good for you. You’re more, uh, with it, now.” Tony looked deeply uncomfortable and Steve decided to take him out of his misery by clapping him on the shoulder.

“Thanks,” Steve told him, and he meant it. “I really do feel better. I’m more grounded, you know? I even learned how to make microwave popcorn.”

Tony seemed to be relieved at the subject change and pounced on the bone Steve had thrown him. “Conspiracy,” he countered, and Steve grinned the whole time the kernels were popping.

 

“Stevie,” Bucky said one day as he entered the kitchen, “let’s go dancing.”

Steve glanced up from where he was attempting to mix waffle batter and snorted. “Nice bedhead, pal.”

“Thanks, it’s in fashion these days,” and as far as Steve was concerned that could be God’s honest truth. “But really. I want to do this, Steve. I want that part of me back.”

Steve nodded slowly, considering it. “You might be a little disappointed at modern dancing,” he warned. “And you’ll have to find a dame—a, uh, a woman first.”

Bucky shrugged. “Or _you_ could come dancing with me,” he pointed out, and Steve looked at him in astonishment.

“Yeah?”

Bucky grinned at him, reaching across the counter to give his shoulder a fond squeeze. “Hell yeah. Gotta teach my best guy how to dance someday, right?”

Steve grinned back and pretended his heart wasn’t racing fast enough to have killed him when he was small.

“I guess it’s about time I learned.”

As it turned out, Bucky was _not_ disappointed by modern dancing. In fact, he seemed to take to it immediately.

“I mean, it’s no jazz or swing,” he admitted. “The dancing doesn’t seem much like anything that requires much thought or coordination, though, so it should be easy for you.” Steve cuffed him on the shoulder and Bucky grinned. “C’mon.”

Steve allowed himself to be dragged on the dancefloor and tried to listen to whatever track was blasting through the speakers, hoping he’d be able to identify the artist and share a piece of modern trivia with Bucky. Unfortunately, Natasha had banned Barton from filling Steve’s iPod with rap or dubstep, and he was at a bit of a loss.

Bucky seemed to notice his disappointment and tugged him closer, placing Steve’s hands on his waist and looping his arms around Steve’s neck. For a moment Steve marvelled at the easy way Bucky touched him—even before the war, it had never been like this. It had never been allowed to be like this.

“It’s Nicki Minaj, pal,” Bucky informed him, forced to lean in and shout a bit since even Steve’s super-hearing was affected by the booming bass and sounds of shrieking laughter.

Steve distantly remembered hearing that name before but was suddenly distracted by the way Bucky pulling their bodies flush together and swaying. His grip tightened on Bucky’s waist, and Bucky tipped his head back to meet Steve’s gaze.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“We just got here,” Steve pointed out, and Bucky shrugged.

“ _I’m_ enjoying myself,” he countered, a flirtatious look in his eye, and for a moment Steve allowed himself to hope. He read further into that split-second gaze longer than he had ever allowed himself to during the war or before it. He had long given up on the hope that Bucky would ever want him in that way, but the way he’d looked at Steve, the way their bodies had molded together…

Steve shook himself out of those thoughts and gave in to the dance, laughing right along with Bucky and spinning him even when it wasn’t appropriate. He enjoyed the way Bucky would occasionally (accidentally? _Purposely_?) ground into him.

When he felt himself actually begin to sweat, Bucky led him off the dance floor and they spilled out onto the street, still wrapped up in each other and laughing. Steve looked down at his flushed best friend, and then back at the club with its artificial colored lights and expensive drinks and sweaty bodies, and finally let himself truly marvel at what changes the twenty-first century had to offer. He even got Barton to download his songs onto Steve’s iPod.

 

Sam was the second person to point it out. Steve and Bucky had invited him over to their apartment for dinner, since Bucky’s latest kick was buying stacks of cookbooks and trying every single recipe in it.

“I refuse to boil a single food for the rest of my life,” he declared, and that was good enough for Steve.

“Hey hey,” Sam greeted them both once Steve had let him inside. “How are my favorite Brooklyn boys doing?”

“Dodgers still playing for LA?” Bucky asked, not looking up from the pot he was stirring.

“Uh, yeah,” Sam replied.

“Then terrible,” Bucky decided.

“We’re great, Sam,” Steve interjected. “Bucky’s teaching me how to Lindy Hop.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam said, looking genuinely pleased by this. “You getting that on video, Barnes?”

“Yeah, but I already sold the tapes to Stark,” he told him. Steve rolled his eyes.

“Real funny.”

Bucky glanced over his shoulder and shot Steve a smirk. Steve wondered how that particular grin hadn’t been changed a bit even after all these years. He could recognize Bucky Barnes’ smile through a pair of black eyes; he’d know it even in the thickest smoke on the battlefield. Steve would kill just to keep that smile on Bucky’s face. He wondered if that made him a selfish man, or just a bad one.

“You’ll have to show me sometime,” Sam commented with an expression that made dread curl in the bottom of his stomach.

“No way,” he said just as Bucky gave a cheerful, “sure!”

Sam looked at them both in amusement and shook his head, changing the subject. “So what’s for dinner?”

Dinner was relatively simple, going by Bucky’s new standards. It was chicken coated in some sort of creamy sauce baked in a casserole dish with an assortment of broccoli, carrots, and peas that were also smeared with the sauce. Bucky had also baked his own bread (the first time Steve had tried it, he’d honest-to-god moaned; it made Bucky beam in a way that Steve hadn’t seen in years, and they hadn’t bought their own bread since) and roasted some potatoes.

“Shit, Barnes,” Sam commented upon completing his third and final helping. Steve wondered if he was on his fourth or fifth— he’d lost track. “You can cook a damn sight better than Rogers can.”

Steve didn’t even try and protest.

“Stevie used to do all the cooking back in the day,” Bucky informed him with a long-suffering expression. “I’d come home from a long, hard day at the docks, hopin’ that I could sit down to a nice meal at my own table, but Steve here could barely toast bread without setting something on fire, and—”

“Fuck off, Barnes, I was not your girl and was under no obligation to feed you,” Steve reminded him, unable to help the fond smile. “You could’ve been left to make your own meals, you jerk.”

“Aw, Stevie, just cause your cooking was terrible doesn’t mean I didn’t appreciate it,” Bucky told him with a flutter of his eyelashes that somehow continued to charm Steve after all these years. The effect was ruined when he turned to Sam and muttered, “He really was terrible, though. When the Army was in charge of feeding me it was a relief, I was practically getting gourmet meals—”

He was cut off by Steve flinging a carrot at him with super-solider precision and immediately froze, arching a single deadly eyebrow before turning slowly to stare him down.

“You are about as mature as a five-year-old, Rogers, God help me understand how you ever became a national icon—”

“Hey, Sam,” Steve said loudly, talking over Bucky. “You ever read my old comics? Yeah, in _my comic_ s Bucky was my trusty twelve-year-old sidekick—”

“You fuck right off, Steven Grant, you and your goddamn comic book can go straight to hell—”

“—and that cute little mask—”

“—could kill you right now and make sure Wilson never rats me out, no one would know—”

Sam just sat there and ate his piece of bread, laughing loudly and freely, and Steve had never felt so good.

When Bucky was busy doing the dishes, Steve sat with Sam in the living room and chatted. It was so _domestic_ and _normal_. It was easy to forget that a year earlier he and Sam had once brutally fought the man currently cleaning up their chicken dinner.

“You seem good,” Sam said to him, and Steve nodded. He hadn’t felt this good since, well, since 1945 on a battlefield of World War Two.

“I am good,” he replied honestly. “He’s good, too. He’s doing so good.”

“Steve,” Sam said seriously, “ _you_ are doing better. I know that your martyr complex or whatever won’t let you stop and think about this, but you needed help. Nat and I talked about this, and you were, like, _painfully_ sad. Steve, Nat told me about your old DC apartment. Did you even have any pictures on your walls? Things on your fridge?”

Steve snorted. “I didn’t see the point in framing anything if I could only find the picture by Googling the names of my dead friends.”

Sam’s expression changed and became grim. “I’m sorry, Steve,” he said earnestly. “But I’m glad that you have your boy back, because he’s been nothing but good for you.”

Steve smiled, turning his head to watch Bucky hum along to the radio and slosh dishwater all over the counter. “We’re good for each other.”

 

At some point, he and Bucky had given up on waiting for one of them to have a nightmare and just shared the same bed each night. Not only did it make it easier for them to soothe each other’s nightmares, but it was a comfort knowing they had each other’s backs even while asleep. One night, nearing the one-year anniversary of Bucky’s return, Steve slept through the night. When he woke up the next morning, he felt younger than he had since 1941.

“Hey, pal,” Bucky said softly from beside him. “You did real good last night. No nightmares?”

Steve shook his head in wonder. “No nightmares,” he confirmed. “God, Buck, I can’t tell you the last time I slept without waking up at some point during the night. Not since before the war, probably. _Christ_ ,” and oh, his throat was thickening, he wanted to cry in relief and joy and wanted Bucky to feel these same things with him.

“I’m real glad, Stevie,” Bucky told him, and because Steve had known him since he was seven years old he knew it was the truth. “I’m so goddamned glad for you.”

Those kinds of nights started happening more often after that.

 

One morning Steve woke up to an empty bed and an alarm clock that read 5:45 AM. He frowned, wondering what Bucky was doing up so early. Since his return to Steve, he would barely let Steve drag him out of bed before 10:00, 9:30 at the earliest. He’d told Steve that if there wasn’t a CO there to wake him up at 0500 every day, he’d be damned if he let anything get him out of bed. Steve threw the covers back and slid out of bed, wary and preparing himself for the possibility that Bucky was having some kind of flashback or recovering from a particularly bad nightmare.

Instead, he found Bucky sitting in front of the television, frowning at it in concentration. Steve looked between him and the TV, wondering what show was captivating his friend. He recognized it as one of Bucky’s favorite cooking shows— Ranch Woman? Pioneer Cooking? God, he couldn’t remember; personally, he didn’t like the host at all.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said after making enough noise to let him know he was there. “What are you doing up so early?”

Bucky didn’t even glance at him. “She’s making pies.”

“Oh,” Steve said. “Right.”

Apparently this answer wasn’t good enough, and Bucky turned to give him a slightly wild look.

“ _Pies_ , Steve!”

“Okay!” Steve replied, searching for the acceptable answer. “Are… are you going to make pies?”

“Yes,” Bucky said simply, turning back to his show. “We need to go shopping.”

“It’s not even six in the morning yet,” he pointed out. Bucky shrugged.

“The strawberry pie takes four hours to chill,” was all he said, so Steve got his keys.

Bucky’s passion for pastries certainly wasn’t anything Steve wanted to discourage, especially since he was so _good_ at it. Steve was just starting to wonder what they were going to do with all the excess dessert.

At the grocery store, Bucky neatly tore his list in half and gave one of the pieces to Steve. “You get everything on this, I’ll get my stuff, rendezvous in the ice cream aisle,” he instructed, and Steve gaze him a lazy salute.

“Yes sir.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and set off in the opposite direction, scanning his list before making a sharp left turn into an aisle. Steve watched him go, smiling, and reflected on how different shopping was now that Bucky was back. Before, he had bought the essentials for his fridge and little else. He had never realized how lonely it was to grocery shop by yourself and for yourself. Not to mention how overwhelmed he was by all the _choices_ — yogurts flavored like desserts, bread that could be white or wheat or whole grain or half grain or rolls or loaves or sliced… It was just a lot. Too much. But once he and Bucky had started going together, it was different. Bucky wanted to try key lime pie yogurt and taste test all the different types of whipped cream and buy crackers shaped like fish. The choices stopped seeming so intimidating and instead became a game, something fun to experience with his best guy.

Steve was paused in front of the shelves of pretzels, wondering which type it was that Bucky wanted. Wasn’t he making a pie? Where there _sweet_ pretzels? Shit, if he had just been more specific then—

“Steve,” Bucky said from behind him, making Steve jump nearly a foot in shock. “Oh, shit, sorry. I was waiting in the freezer section for like five minutes. What’s taking you so long?”

“ _Pretzels_ ,” Steve said hopelessly. Bucky just laughed at him and steps forward to snag a bag of pretzel sticks off the shelf.

“Come on, Stevie,” he said affectionately. “We got shit to do.”

They checked out and argued the whole way home whether it was acceptable to make a pie crust out of pretzels.

“Steve, stop being such a wimp,” Bucky said. “You gotta try new things. Remember what I said to you before I shipped out? _We’re going to the future._ Well, here we are, pal. It’s the future, and we’re together, and we’re going to make a pie with goddamn pretzel crust. Alright?”

And since he couldn’t argue with that, he said, “Alright.”

(The crust was pretty good. Bucky was smug about it for days.)

 

Natasha came over one day while Bucky was out. They made idle chitchat for a while before she set down her mug of coffee and gave Steve an assessing look.

“When I dumped all of SHIELD’s files on the internet, there was a video of you when they first found you frozen and woke you up. It’s one of the most popular things I leaked.”

“I know,” Steve told her. “I watched it.”

“It’s so popular because you can see the first time you take a breath in nearly seventy years,” she continued. “You can see the doctor’s excitement when your heartbeat starts to register on the monitor. A national icon, resurrected.”

Steve stared at her, wondering what the point of this conversation was. She looked right back at him, expression serious but not cold.

“Anyone who wanted to could watch that video and see Captain America being resuscitated. This is different. This is you coming to _life_.”

 

Steve started drawing again.

Bucky bought him a new notebook and an unnecessary amount of pencils for Christmas, which Steve had thanked him for profusely and later shoved in a drawer. It hurt to look at them; it was a reminder of his lost drawings of Bucky and the Commandos and especially Peggy, the beautiful portraits of Peggy with her secret smile or that look she’d get right before giving a particularly vicious right hook. He’d drawn her once right after she’d taken down an entire squadron of HYDRA goons that had managed to sneak onto base. Steve had used the sliver of red pencil that he had left to color in her lips instead of the bloodstains on her cheek.

Bucky sometimes fished the notebook out of the drawer and left it laying around as a not-so-subtle hint to Steve. He was just relieved that Bucky seemed to understand it wasn’t that Steve didn’t appreciate his gift, just that he wasn’t sure he had it in him to draw anymore.

Yet one day, after a particularly good day, he had found it on Bucky’s bedside table. He stared at it, at the leather-bound cover with a small _S_ on the bottom right corner. He picked it up and flipped through it, appreciating the quality of the thick pages. It was a hundred times nicer than any sketchbook he’d ever owned back in the day, but no less personal than the small notebook Bucky had given him once for his birthday.

“S’nothing, Stevie,” Bucky had insisted, blushing a little and looking away. “It’s the least I can do. It’s your birthday, right? Everyone’s gotta get something for their birthday.”

That night, Steve had sketched Bucky while they drank cheap whiskey and listened to the sound of the Coney Island fireworks. Steve remembered it as one of his favorite birthdays. He hadn’t been sure anyone else in this century even knew when his birthday was.

Making up his mind, Steve planted himself next to the window in the dining room and opened the sketchbook, admiring his array of nice pencils and got to work sketching Bucky. His fingers had been twitching to draw Bucky’s new arm, desperate to map out the new tendrils of his hair and shape the broad shoulders. He drew Bucky as he was: different, bigger, sadder, but still the same punk that complained about Steve’s messy habits and held Steve when he wanted comfort.

When he finished the drawing he’d carefully ripped it out and placed it on the kitchen counter for Bucky to see when he got home. While he waited, he began outlining the familiar lines of Peggy’s curves and authoritative stance.

It only took another fifteen minutes for the sound of Bucky’s key in the lock, and Steve hunched in on himself a little. He was a little rusty, and who was to say Bucky would even like the drawing, maybe Steve had drawn it a little _too_ lovingly, maybe—

Bucky appeared in the doorway, the drawing clutched in his hand. He stared at Steve with wide, shining eyes and Steve wondered why he had ever stopped.

“Steve,” Bucky said, voice raspy and delighted. “You’re _drawing_. You’re _drawing_ again.”

“I know,” Steve said, and Bucky crossed the room in three easy strides before sweeping Steve into a bone-crushing hug.

“Fuck, Stevie,” he said into Steve’s ear. “You’re so good, you’re so damn good, all I want is for you to do what you love and you _are_ , that’s all I want for you, sweetheart, you have no idea—”

Steve wondered if Bucky had any idea that he’d just let slip an endearment other than “pal.” Instead of commenting, though, he just held Bucky tighter and buried his face in Bucky’s hair. “You were the first thing I wanted to draw,” he said honestly, and Bucky started crying for real.

“I’ve been back for so long, and I know that I’m doing better, and it’s all cause of you, darlin’, you gotta know that you make me good. But since I’ve been back all I do is worry about you just like I always did, worry about whether you’re eating enough or if you’re happy and trying to figure out what I can do to get that sad damn look out of your eye…”

“Buck,” Steve choked out, nuzzling their faces a little, “ever since I woke up I’ve been wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with myself. I spent three years just going through the motions of everyday life, like I was living some kind of a mockery of what real life is. All I did was serve my country and my people, and it just wasn’t the _same_ ‘cause some days it seemed like I was serving a different country with unrecognizable people. But when you came back suddenly I remembered that I gotta let myself _live_ and not just be alive. And when I started doing that, and when I started coming home to you and fighting with you, it was so easy to remember why I ever signed up to get the serum in the first place. You think I make you good but you make me see good, Buck, and now I can find reasons to get up in the morning to join the world and not just fight for it. God, Buck, do you understand? You make me feel so, so alive.”

Bucky moved away so he could look Steve in the eye. He unwrapped one of his arms and reached up to cup Steve’s face. “I love you,” he said simply, and Steve would’ve died in the ice a hundred times over if it meant he could just have this one moment.

“And I love you,” he replied, and Bucky leaned up and they kissed like the seventy years apart had never happened.

The drawing of Bucky ended up on the kitchen floor and had a bootprint across it, but Bucky still insisted on framing it and hanging it up on the wall above their bed. Peggy’s went on her bedside table, and the group portrait he’d done was hanging in the Avengers common area, despite his embarrassed protests.

“We could sell these for millions of dollars to, like, the MOMA,” Tony commented the day they’d put it up. Bucky grinned and slid an arm around Steve’s waist and leaned up to drop a kiss on his cheek.

“The MOMA has nude paintings, right?” Bucky asked, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Cause there’s a couple that Steve has done that are really just—”

“Alright,” Steve said sharply, but Tony was already perking up at the idea.

“Oh my God, Captain America’s portraits of a naked Bucky Barnes are probably _priceless_ , they’re probably worth more than this building which is really saying something—”

“Alright!” Steve repeated, his whole face flushing. “None of my nude drawings are going anywhere, it’s bad enough that this one is hanging up—”

Clint, who was sitting on a couch behind them, made a thoughtful noise. “The collection could be called, ‘How Steve Rogers Got His Groove Back.’”

“No,” Steve said exasperatedly, looking around him for an ally. Natasha just gave him a small smile and shook her head in amusement. He groaned, and Bucky soothingly rubbed his back.

“Stop worrying, babydoll, the only place those drawings are going are on our wall,” he reassured him. Steve rolled his eyes and leaned down for a kiss.

“Gross,” Tony and Clint said at the same time, and Bucky deepened the kiss, going so far as to dip Steve a little.

“You’re an idiot,” Steve told him when Bucky finally released him, breathless for the first time in what felt like forever.

“Baby, I am _your_ idiot,” Bucky said with a grin that belonged to 2015 just as much as it did to 1945.

And Steve Rogers felt whole.    

**Author's Note:**

> A few things:  
> Firstly, this fic is totally unbetaed and very sloppily edited because I am a lazy writer, and for that I apologize. I hope you enjoyed it anyway!  
> Secondly, I never actually wrote the Lindy Hop scene because I know next to nothing about 40's swing music/dancing and decided to not embarrass myself. If anyone would like to educate me or write that scene themselves, please feel free!  
> Thirdly, the show Bucky was watching was The Pioneer Woman which my mother loves and I find endlessly amusing. She's a nice lady but God is she annoying. Also, she makes pies with pretzel crusts. That's wrong.  
> Fourthly, Peggy is the absolute light of my life and I did not write about her nearly as much as I wanted to, since I tried to keep it as central to Steve and Bucky as I could, but I wanted to add in that bit about Steve always drawing her since I know for a fact if I could draw well I would never stop. I'm thinking about doing a Peggy-centric piece, if anyone has any ideas please let me know!  
> Fifthly and finally, the title comes from Dry the River's "Demons."  
> Come say hi on Tumblr-- asoulforapieceofbread.tumblr.com. If anyone wants to take pity on me and teach me how to embed links on AO3, please come save me.  
> I hope you enjoyed it, thanks for reading!


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